One Foot In
by tanyart
Summary: A Dragon Age AU; a rogue and a mage.  Altair/Malik
1. maleficarum

**AN:** A friend suggested a Dragon Age AU with Malik and Altair but instead of the one drabble I was supposed to do, I went and did, like, four of them- somewhat connected scenes, but not meant to be entirely cohesive. Lots of fast-forwarding in between chapters, basically. This takes place during the Dragon Age 2 era, but I'm calling it an AU rather than a crossover since none of the DA characters are in it. The title comes from one of the blood mage's upgrade abilities, _Grave Robber_. Hee.

Also, Endy wrote a couple of brilliant and wonderful follow-ups as well! I will link the appropriate ones after my parts. (Or try to, since likes being a pain with these things.) Anyway, these were tons of fun to do! Hope you enjoy!

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><p>Altair was not surprised to find himself eventually surrounded by men with their swords pointed at him. He was, after all, a lone traveler in Lowtown at night with nothing more than two small blades strapped to his back and a sizable pack at his hip. He would have been disappointed if no one at least <em>tried<em>to approach him, though it was still a bother that the would-be thieves chose to strike at the docks while the rain made the wooden planks slick under their heels, but beggars couldn't be choosers and Altair had been itching for a fight since fleeing the Bone Pit days ago.

Shifting his stance, he drew his blades, flicking droplets into the face of the nearest thief with a challenging smirk. The fact that he was that confident gave the thieves pause, but that was all; they dove at Altair without giving him another moment.

Soon it became apparent that the battle was almost not worth his time, not even worth _killing _for_._The thieves had numbers, yes, but it was an unsteady wave of ill-timed attacks and allies tripping over each other. Altair's blades took advantage of every weakness, singing out each time the shining steel sliced through air and flesh alike. Not even a minute had gone by and there were already four bodies on the ground. He gritted his teeth, looking up in time to see a pinprick point of light, wavering from faraway. Instinctively, he dropped to his knees, a dark-feathered shaft flying over him and disappearing into the darkness.

Cursing, he stood up, impatiently pushing away the warrior bearing down on him. When he could not, Altair held his breath, focused at the spot behind the warrior, and winked out of existence for a split second before reappearing to plunge his knife into the enemy's back. Kicking the corpse away, Altair started to turn towards the archer but stumbled as the ground suddenly shook, loud and hard enough to match the rumbling sky.

The moment he regained his footing, he tried to locate the archer, surprised to find a boulder in her place instead and a cloaked mage standing next to it, if the staff was anything to go by. Altair didn't even have time to register _where_the mage had come from before a hand was raised and the blood pooling beneath the boulder gave off a soft glow. The mage glanced at Altair, and though the cowl obscured any expression, there was a note of recognition and contempt. Looking past Altair, the mage lifted his hand again, waving it as if he was brushing away an annoying insect.

Altair tensed, willing himself to stand steady as his enemies exploded all around him, sending a shower of blood and gore that fell just as heavily as the rain. Despite that the same could have been done to him, Altair did not waste time reappearing behind the mage, bringing up his dagger to rest against the spellcaster's neck, but the mage did not seem to _care_and immediately slammed Altair against one of Lowtown's decrepit buildings.

The mage's hand found its way to Altair's throat, slippery with blood and water. Altair struggled against him, using every trick at his disposal, but the mage seemed to know what to expect and pressed harder, the blood around his fingers flickering with an eerie light until Altair was conscious of the energy draining from him.

"That was not even a fraction of what you took from me," the mage hissed, his grip slackening.

"You're-" Altair began, still trying to twist away and growled in frustration when the mage did not left off.

"Alive? Yes," Malik said, struggling just the same, though only in holding back the things he was trying _not_ to say. Finally, he seemed to give up and raised his voice, shouting at Altair. "How could you do this? You _left_ us to die!"

It had been days since the Bone Pit, but Altair had no trouble recalling it clearly because there wasn't much _to _remember.

"There was a barrier! _Magic_. I couldn't get through," he shot back, grabbing Malik's wrist, and reached for the other one, but his hand grasped nothing but air, fingers brushing against the empty left sleeve of Malik's robe. He froze, realization dawning on him.

"The barrier," the mage repeated bitterly. "We had to fight through the undead you left behind, all the traps _you_ set off while running away. You did not even _wait_."

"Blood magic," Altair muttered and winced when Malik's fingers tightened around his neck in warning; he had no problem with renewing the draining spell on Altair, despite his obvious reluctance to use it at all.

"Oh, so you've just noticed? Kadar is dead, in case you were wondering that as well."

Altair stared, long enough for Malik to read the weight of his silence. The mage stepped back, letting go in disgust.

"Is your opinion of me so low that you think I would take my brother's life to replenish my own? That I would become a Blood Mage just to open a simple barrier?" Malik snarled. "Or is it something that you would have done, had you been in my place?"

Altair pushed off the wall, gathering his daggers from where he had dropped them, and left Malik's staff to lie in a red-tinted puddle of water. He did not say anything, knowing that he wasn't obligated to answer; Malik and his brother were well aware of the risks, but repeating them now would only anger the mage even further. Altair sheathed his weapons, watching Malik carefully as he did. "We had a client."

At first, he thought Malik was going to storm off, but the mage threw him a hateful look. "Tell the client we failed."

"We need that Apple."

Malik regarded Altair in mute disbelief. He picked up his staff, letting the end of it scrap against the ground. "Perhaps I was not clear enough. Because of you, I have lost my brother and my arm. Because of _you_, I am now a blood mage," he said, every word thrumming with barely repressed fury. "No, Altair. I will not help you any longer. Find another apostate."

He left, then, without another word and with the rain washing away all traces of the blood he had spilt on the streets. Altair watched him disappear, putting a hand to his bruised neck, and stared when his fingers came away red for a moment before that, too, was lost in the rain.


	2. overkill

When Malik retraced his steps back into the small alley, he found Altair pulling his blade free from a struggling Templar, the bodies of several more littering the ground around them. He watched, annoyed yet unsurprised, and waited for Altair to finish planting his foot against the Templar's neck, crushing it. From a distance, an archer nocked his arrow, but Malik tapped his staff on the ground, hard, and a bolt of lightning spiraled over, instantly killing the already weakened man.

Altair glanced up, noting Malik's unimpressed look, and shrugged.

"They were following you," Altair explained, somewhat half-heartedly as the archer fell.

Malik rolled his eyes, shaking off his hood. He had been on edge since leaving the Hanged Man and the hood was beginning to become a necessity to conceal his face. Feeling cool night air against the back of his neck, he could _almost_ breathe a sigh of relief.

"I have eyes, Altair. They were not sneaking about in the shadows like you," he said, keeping his distance. It was bad enough trying to avoid the Templars without the rogue tailing after him as well and, for some reason, it was always harder to escape Altair. "I was leading them _away_, novice. I could have taken care of them myself."

"You took too long," Altair scoffed, full of thoughtless arrogance as usual. "Why didn't you just use your-" and gestured to the small knife at Malik's hip that was kept unsheathed, just in case there ever came a time when the mage's blood was needed.

And while Malik was fortunate enough that those times were few and far in between, he suspected that if he ever did join Altair's cobbled band of misfits, the knife would be used with more frequency than he was comfortable with. He was far from being addicted to blood magic, but he did not want to invite the risk.

"The Templars already know that I am an apostate," he replied, "No need to prove to them that I am a malificar as well."

"Assuming they know the difference," Altair said dryly.

In another time and place, Malik might have laughed, but then again, in another time and place he wouldn't be in his current position to begin with. Still, Altair's wry tone startled Malik into a small smile of his own. Bitter as it was, it held an old spark of his usual cynical mirth.

"Even so," he said, trying to muster a little more anger into his words, but even to his ears he only sounded weary and exasperated. "Altair, what are you doing here? I do not need your help or protection, and as I've told you before, I have no desire to join you on your treasure hunt."

He thought he saw Altair tense through the dim lamplight, but the rogue was only sheathing his daggers, the movements practiced and unhurried, and not of a man who was anxious or nervous. Malik turned around, stepping out of the alley; he had lingered long enough, even if the city guards weren't quite as watchful in Lowtown in comparison to the other parts of Kirkwall.

"The Hanged Man is a popular place. I happened to be nearby," Altair said, coming up to walk beside Malik—not in front to lead or behind to stalk, though he seemed to lag by half a step, as if trying to anticipate Malik's path. It was a subtle thing, as Altair was always surefooted, and Malik paused, irritated that he _had_ noticed, and that he didn't quite know what to make of it.

"And I suppose you 'happened to be nearby' the last four times as well. The mines? Darktown? The marshes? Yes, such common and popular places to be, Altair."

Now Altair _did_ tense, if only a little from the set line of his mouth. He shot Malik a pointed look. "I could say the same thing to you."

"Forgive me if I'm pressed for choice when trying to hide myself from the Chantry," Malik replied with a shrug. He knew the argument was already in his favor from the start. Why Altair kept on insisting otherwise every time was a detail he was getting tired of questioning. Altair _was_ following him, sporadically, and it was different from when Malik had done the same to hunt down Templar informants, as their goals had been similar at the time. It was a string of chance encounters that were unavoidable but _this_—when Altair showed up for no reason at all with no quest, no contract—was jarring and invasive.

Altair scowled, his gaze falling to the ground for a brief moment before he put his arm in front of Malik, not intending to be forceful, but the way he held it up made it appear like a threat. Malik regarded him with a frown, recognizing the defensive look in Altair's eyes.  
>"I won't allow anyone to have you," Altair said, because when Altair was defensive, he <em>attacked<em>. "Not the Chantry. Not the Circle or the Templars. No one."

Shaking his head, Malik pushed forward, using his staff to knock Altair's hand away. There were not enough words for him to say on how utterly idiotic the statement—_statement_, from Altair's tone—sounded, and how unneeded and obvious it was.

"No one except _me_, of course," Altair finished, and if it was his intention to grab back Malik's attention, it worked.

"I am not anyone's to take, lest of all you," Malik snapped, whirling around, but Altair stepped forward, talking over him.

"You aren't listening, Malik," he said, making up for his lack of eloquence with blunt words, hastily spoken and done out of frustration. "_I_ won't let anyone have you._Me_. It has very little to do with you. _You_ are free to do whatever it is you want."

Malik stared, for once speechless and unable to even make the simplest retort or dismissal. He ran over the words twice in his head before he became aware of Altair's hand clutching the loose end of his pinned sleeve, not touching Malik directly but the gesture was there just the same. He twitched away and Altair let go.

"Selfish as usual," Malik muttered, ignoring how Altair managed to look both relieved and disappointed at once. He drew up his hood, distracting himself with caution as they made their way out into the open streets.

Altair did not answer, allowing the silence to drag on until their tempers had settled and his words had sunk down as far as they would go—or perhaps he just did not have anything more to say. Whatever it was, it had been more than what he wanted to reveal. When they arrived back at the Hanged Man, Altair paused on the steps, looking a bit lost before he disappeared into the shadows of the tavern, muttering something about leaving Rauf with the tab, and left Malik standing at the entrance with one foot already inside.

For some reason, it seemed that neither of them had meant to go back to the Hanged Man. With an annoyed huff, Malik wondered, distantly, who had been doing the leading and who had been following—or if it had really been that easy to fall into step with each other.

Unable to come up with an answer, he went back outside, suspecting that he may not have liked it anyway.


	3. sacrifice

"Where are you going?"

It was not a question Altair had ever uttered, as Malik's reply would have been obvious; it was none of Altair's business, try as he might to make it so. Malik guessed the difference _this_ time was that Altair had approached him during the day in the marketplace to actually _ask_—like what any reasonable person would do—instead of waiting from the shadows to intervene whenever Malik ran into trouble.

And, honestly, Malik ran into Altair so much these days that he started to think that it would make little difference if the rogue knew where he lived. Malik knew he would move out in two weeks time in any case, as he always did to avoid unwanted attention.

"Well, since you keep insisting on knowing my whereabouts, I might as well save you the trouble," he said after a while. "I've taken up residence in Darktown for now. Under the maps shop."

"I know the place," Altair murmured, sounding a bit surprised that Malik answered at all.

"Good. Then you don't need to follow me there. I am sure you have better things to do today," Malik said, and it was only until Altair nodded that he added, "But if you are in need of a map, feel free to drop by. The owner is a skilled cartographer. Very reliable."

"And you?"

"Well, it depends. I might be there as well," Malik said, frowning. He hesitated, slowing down so much that Altair's shoulder bumped against his. It was not hard to state the truth of his situation, and Malik's pride wasn't so high up on its pedestal that he was beneath asking for help, even if the help happened to be Altair. He let out a quiet breath, admitting, "Mercenary contracts have been hard to come by, being what I am. If you are in need of a mage as well, I could use the work. Just not—I won't help you find the Apple. Or do blood magic, at all. Are we clear?"

Unexpectedly, Altair did not argue or even comment on his terms, accepting them with a curt nod, though he failed to hide the pleased look in his eyes. "Clear enough. Mapmaking not enough pay?"

"No. Only dull."

"Ah," Altair said, stopping as they started to pass by the long, towering stairway to the Chantry. He stood still for a moment and canted his head towards the steps. "I have some business to attend to, but maybe after…"

Malik could hear the suggestion in Altair's voice, the awkwardness of it when all they had ever done since the Bone Pit was yell or argue or fight, sometimes with each other but lately it had been more often side by side. Civility was something new to them both and while Altar might be the one extending his hand for once, Malik was not yet ready to put it to the test. Shaking his head, he continued to walk away. "I believe I've had enough of you for today."

Altair did not reply, and when Malik glanced over his shoulder to look, he was unsurprised to find the rogue already half-way up the stairs, unfaltering but never looking back down.

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><p>Next part written by Endy: <em>arugentine(dot)livejournal(dot)com25912(dot)html_


	4. blood spatter

It was the tight grip of Altair's hand shaking his shoulder that roused Malik from his dazed stupor. He blinked once to clear the white haze from his eyes, making sure the first thing he did was to catch Rauf's attention over the two giant dragon corpses, their cut bodies steaming in the thin, frigid air.

"Thank you," Malik said from his spot on the ground. He could not recall falling to his knees, but that was probably for the best; he was still trying to catch his breath. "I apologize for the lack of warning."

Rauf came over, a bottle in his hand with a tiny amount of red liquid sloshing at the bottom. The fabric that habitually covered his face was slipping to the side, revealing a corner of his reassuring grin.

"No, no. It was good that you did," Rauf said, hitching the mask back up and pocketing the bottle for later. The fact that he was drinking the potion at all was the mage's doing, after Malik had drained a part of the warrior's stamina when his own was dangerously low. Rauf nodded towards the dead dragons. "When the second one came, I started to doubt our chances until you… well."

Malik gave a little laugh, the elation of casting a powerful spell still running through his veins like fire, better than strongest wine or spirits and just as addicting. He struggled to contain it, focusing on the bitter guilt that was _his_, not something manufactured by some arcane magic. It did not matter the creature—human or elf or dragon—the very act of taking control of its mind and shattering it completely was even more unsettling to him than simply making their bodies explode. He sat back, scarcely aware that Altair was steadying him with a firm hand on his back.

"No need to avoid the subject with me. I _made_ one of them into my blood slave," Malik huffed, rubbing his forehead and letting the words hang in the air. He glanced at the dragons, remarking offhandedly, "It was difficult to get the drake to obey at first. They were probably mates."

Altair shifted beside him, an abrupt gesture for a man who normally moved with stealth and grace.

"Rauf, go find Dabir," he said, breaking his unusual silence, all too loud and too near Malik's ear. "Bring him here."

Rauf tilted his head, the question in his eyes before he seemed to realize that it was none of his concern and nodded. "Of course. He should be nearby. I saw him looting the corpses for ceramic pots. Again."

With a chuckle that did not need to be forced, the warrior slipped away, leaving a shallow line of footprints in the frost-covered ground. Malik let his hand drop from his head and started to stand, but there was a missing weight from his hip, making his pause.

"Where's my knife?" he asked, looking around him. He just _had_ it, and the feel of the smooth blade slicing across his palm to steal Rauf's energy was still vivid in his mind.

Altair's hand clamped over the stump of his arm and he stiffened. The reaction was instinctive, and he wondered when Altair had the gall to make such a move, if Altair thought that it would be all right, just because Malik had finally allowed his proximity and his light touches. Drawing back, the mage barely had time to protest before he hissed in pain as Altair swiftly pulled out the knife from his arm, sending out a short, dizzying spurt of blood.

"Here," Altair said, setting down the knife between them. At Malik's brief look of confusion, his frown deepened, though that could have been because he was having difficulty wrapping the loose end of Malik's sleeve around the bleeding wound. "You stabbed yourself before you took control of the dragon."

Maybe Malik could have owed the lapse to the blood loss or the magic's temptation or even the battle itself—he supposed that it may have been all three—but it was the tightness in Altair's voice that interested him more. He leaned forward, taking the knife and wiping it clean, if only to keep his gaze lowered and angry expression at bay. Altair _knew_ the requirements for blood magic and had even seen Malik use it before when their battles took a turn for the worst. Why should it send a distasteful look just because Malik used it a little _more_ was almost beyond his grasp. Almost.

"Altair," he began, not wanting to hear it anymore than what he already did.

"You took from Rauf," Altair said, ignoring him.

"Because Rauf had the strength to spare."

"So did I," the rogue pressed until Malik had no choice but to push back with tired, exasperated words.

"Is it not reason enough for you that Rauf was simply nearby at the time?" he retorted, resenting that he was partly to blame for not saying anything before—because telling Altair to _stop_ would have been too close to forgiveness, but Malik was so sick of it now, of Altair's constant need to repent when there was no possible way that he could.

"Then next time-" Altair said, almost like a plea if it didn't sound so much like a demand.

And since Malik had held back for so long, it all came rushing out now, raw and earnest and painful for the both of them. He pulled away from Altair's grasp, knocking his hand aside when the rogue did not immediately let go.

"Altair, _stop this_. Stop insisting that I _take_ from you," he hissed. The magic coursing through his blood was fading away, leaving his body to feel all the aches and pains, the throbbing of his left arm and a nauseating lightheadedness. He fixed his gaze on Altair, making sure that the rogue did not look away, and drew close so that Altair _could_ not look away. "You can _never_ make up for what you took from me. Not with your blood, not with your health, not with your life. It does not work that way. I should know."

For a moment, Altair did not answer. Malik wasn't sure he was even breathing from the absence of the tiny wisps of warm air filtering into the cold through his open mouth. When the seconds stretched out, Malik let his gaze drop, not bothering to choke back a frustrated, disappointed noise.

"I'm not," Altair said suddenly, "I'm not trying to make up for what I've done. I know I can't."

"Then what is it are you trying to do? Apologize? Because I won't accept it," Malik snapped, hating the way Altair seemed to shrink back, though he did not move in the slightest—it was the pained look in his eyes that gave him away. Reaching up, Malik grabbed the front of Altair's collar, pulling him close so that his cheek came to briefly rest against the rough fabric of the rogue's hood. "I do not need any more of your sacrifices," he explained quietly into Altair's ear. "There is _nothing_ for me to forgive. Do you understand?"

Malik could hardly feel it, the tiny shift as Altair lowered his head in silent admittance, almost against Malik's shoulder and only for a moment. Drawing back, Altair let out a faint breath, the ghostly puff of air mingling in with Malik's. He appeared lost all around—in thought and for words—before he put a weary hand over his eyes. He _did_ understand, now, but all that was left to do was to forgive himself, and Malik suspected the real battle had been that all along.

Releasing Altair's collar, Malik brushed his fingers over Altair's forehead and frowned when it left streaks of blood. Trying again, he pressed his lips against the cool skin, unheated and unwavering, even as Altair dropped his hand from his eyes to stare, brow knitting in consternation.

If Malik was meant to say anything, he didn't get the chance. Rauf's shield bouncing against his armor was a little too noisy to be a complete accident, and how Dabir manage to break one of his looted pots in the grass was far from a mystery. A smile somehow made its way to Malik's face and he turned, a little unsteady until Altair leaned in to support him.

"How nice of you to come before I pass out," he said to Dabir.

"Of course! I was wondering why Altair hadn't given you a potion by now. It is good to feel needed," Dabir replied in good cheer, sarcastic as it was. Kneeling down, he pointed and waved his staff at Malik, sending a swirl of lively, bright green lights around them.

"The potion wouldn't have worked anyway with the blood magic," Altair growled in defense.

"Ah, but my spell seems to be a success," Dabir said with an infuriating grin.

"It was," Malik confirmed, relaxing as the energy flowed through him. He held out his palm, showing the healed skin, and did not bother checking his arm to see if it still bled; the pain was gone and that was proof enough.

Feeling better all around, he stood on his own, beating Altair in offering his hand to help the other to his feet. When Altair did not hesitate to take it, Malik smiled, unexpectedly glad, and pulled him up.

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><p>Next part written by Endy: <em>arugentine(dot)livejournal(dot)com26344(dot)html_


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